Letter writing to Afghanistan
by Beautiful-Chaos-Girl
Summary: Sherlock AU. Sherlock gets involved in a letter writing campaign to up troop morale in Afghanistan. Who should receive his letter but our very own John Watson?
1. Chapter 1

Dear Anonymous soldier

You are probably wondering why some random you don't know is writing to you. Frankly I'm wondering myself. But I have the kind of mind which if left idle, will fall apart on itself. My mind is like a runaway engine and requires constant fuelling through stimulation and activity. Usually I occupy myself with solving crimes that the police force cannot but unfortunately the criminal classes have been unusually well behaved as of late. My landlady has forbidden me to smoke and I have temporarily run out of nicotine patches. Therefore when I saw this appeal for letters to soldiers, I took the opportunity. Surely interesting things happen in a warzone. Do reply as soon as possible and don't, for goodness sake, don't be boring.

Sherlock Holmes. (Consulting detective)

**Dear Mr. Holmes.  
****  
I was indeed surprised to receive this unrequested letter. My wonderment only increased however as I read your letter. Rather than introducing yourself, as I would expect a first time letter writer would, you proceed to tell me all about the inner workings of your brain. An unorthodox method of letter writing to say the least. But, it would be hypocritical for me to continue because I have not introduced myself to you. I am John Watson, second lieutenant of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. I am aware this will probably not be the stimulation you are looking for but I for one am still bound by social convention. I would like very much to hear more about this job of yours, consulting detective. You are the first one I have ever come across. Are there many people in your line of work? What kind of cases do you take? **

**As for me and my situation I am afraid it is not very interesting at present. I have been here for a month and so far no action. Not that I'm over eager to go out and shoot 'em up but I'm going out of my mind here. On this front I empathize with you Mr. Holmes. Please do reply soon. I hope I didn't bore you too much but remember at least you have access to day time television. **


	2. Chapter 2

Dear J Watson

First of all, do refer to me as Sherlock, not Mr. Holmes. "Mr. Holmes" reminds me of my rather insufferable older brother. You are correct when you say this was not the stimulation I was looking for Mr. or should I say, Dr. Watson. While there wasn't any riveting stories of military action or wartime injuries I did enjoy the slight acerbity you have to your wit. Your letter also gave me the opportunity for a little long distance deduction. I figured out that you are a relatively young man of short stature and you are left handed. You are living in a hot dry climate, either Iraq or Afghanistan and have not acclimatized as of yet.

As for your questions, it is no surprise that I am the first consulting detective you have come across. The fact is I am the only consulting detective you will ever come across. I invented the profession. As a rule I only take on cases that interest me. For example there was one just recently that appeared to be a string of suicides but were in fact murders committed by a London cabbie. Simple really, when you pay attention to the facts.

Dear Sherlock.

Flabbergasted. Yes, I think that's the word that I eventually settled on. I started this letter many times with an assortment of other words but "flabbergasted" articulated my feelings the best. How on earth do you know that I'm a doctor? I guessing that you guessed I was left handed by the angle of my writing but my height and age? (I am indeed young and short. Fun sized as Harry puts it). As for me being in Iraq or Afghanistan I am at a loss. (it's Afghanistan by the way) The only returning address on the envelope is the mailing centre in Cardiff! Never doubt that you are in the right profession Mr. Holmes Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Mr. Watson

You are to be congratulated on an utterly singular achievement, lieutenant. You have subverted my expectations. In short, you have surprised me, which no one has ever done before. Allow me to explain. The usual reception to my deductions, and thusly the one I have come to expect is one of annoyance and unease. "Piss off" is the usual reply so it was a surprise to receive such… praise. But the observations I made were really quite simple. I deduced your profession by the legibility of your writing. I see from the flicks of your y's and e's and the lack of pressure on the page, that you are a man used to writing down copious information in a short period of time. That limited it to professions such as a receptionist (which the army has no use for) or something in the medical profession (the more likely conclusion)

You guessed that I deduced your dominant writing hand from the angle of your writing which was correct. It was the very same variable that allowed me to deduce your height. The angle of you writing does not suggest the writer was hunched over as he wrote, which a tall man would if he was writing on his lap, something which you clearly do, so short or rather "fun sized" it is. The tone of your writing hinted at your age. This leaves your location. The sweaty finger prints suggest heat, the amount suggests your body has not yet acclimatized. A simple check of where the British army is currently located yielded the two possible answers of Iraq or Afghanistan. Still "flabbergasted"?

Dear Sherlock

Come now, if you insist on being Sherlock I must insist on being John. Just John. Some of my army friends call me "Johnny boy" which I detest (which is probably why they do it). In answer to your concluding question yes I am still flabbergasted. Your deduction is a gift to be appreciated Sherlock. I'd get yourself a good publicist if I were you. I cannot imagine any of your deductions warranting a "piss off".

As for what's happening on my end, still no word as to when we will be moving off. Please do keep writing. Your letters are becoming something I look forward to, another chance to get to know this enigma of a man a little better. Why don't you write about one of the cases you have solved? Going over past triumphs is a great boost to the self esteem and gives me another chance to marvel at your genius (sorry I'm babbling. Didn't think you could do that in a letter but there you go. I'll shut up now.)

John Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

Dear John.

Very well, I will describe to you the details of the case I alluded to in an earlier letter, the one that appeared to be serial suicides but were in fact murders.

They appeared to the less than astute police force to be suicides because the cause of death was self administered poisoning. This conclusion did not however factor in all the facts (forgive that little piece of word play). All of the victims were found in places they had no business being, places that were out of the way and none of them showed a history of behaviours that would account for suicide. The first victim was Sir Jeffery Patterson, a well off business man having an affair with his secretary, found in an empty office building. The second was an 18 year old called James "Jimmy" Phillimore, found in a sports centre. The third, the newly elected junior minister of transport Beth Davenport, found on a building site. From the time the third one was discovered the police force began to treat them as linked though they had no idea how they were linked. It was only when the fourth victim, Jennifer Wilson was discovered in Lauriston Gardens that they thought to call me in. Which is a shame as I'm sure I could have solved it previously. The fourth victim was distinct from the others in that she left a note "Rache" carved in the floor, which I deduced to be Rachel, though I had no knowledge at the time that this was. From the body I deduced a few simple things, firstly that she was left handed (the message on the ground), that she worked in the media (she was wearing an alarming shade of pink all over her body, nail polish coat and shoes), that she had been married, unhappily, for 10+years (the rest of her jewelry showed signs of regular cleaning but not her wedding or engagement ring), that she was a serial adulterer (while the outside of the rings was dirty the inside was clean, polished with regular working off the finger), that she'd travelled from Cardiff with the intent of staying in London for one night (the damp condition of her clothes coinciding with weather reports and the size of her suitcase)

Long story short, it turned out the killer was a London cabbie that got a kick out of playing mind games. He tried it on with me, offering me two pills, one poisoned and one safe. He challenged me to take one and he would take the other. Unfortunately just as I was about to, we were interrupted by the police force who had been led there by following the GPS on my phone (much the same way I originally found the killer. "Rachel" was the password which allowed me to access a network which tracks cell phones. Mrs. Wilson was clever) I was quite confident I had deduced which pill was safe and which was not but, thanks to the bumbling police force, I never got a chance to find out.

I did however find out the killer was working for another man, "a sponsor" as he termed it, by the name of Moriarty. This is interesting and something I will have to ponder on further.

How about you John? What do you make of all this?  
Sherlock Holmes

**Dear Sherlock **

**That was the longest letter I ever read but it was worth it! Better than any mystery novel, because it was real! To think, you solved a murder by looking at a woman's wedding ring! Well sort of. On the other hand it sounds like you're putting yourself in a lot of unnecessary danger, like what you said about those pills. Those police officers saved your life and you're sore about an untested hypothesis? Take it from a soldier Sherlock, life is more valuable than affirming how clever you are. I don't mean to be preachy, just honest. **

**Maybe you should get someone who can keep an eye on you like a girlfriend (or boyfriend if you're that way inclined) or something. Someone who you can bounce hypothesizes off but who will also keep you safe. Something to think about? (I don't mean to pry) I'm being called away now but I'll get back to writing ASAP.**

**(Written later) I think I read about that case you mentioned in the paper. We get sent the paper from home sometimes (on a good day) but it says it was solved thanks to the effort s of someone called D.I. Lestrade. Someone stealing your thunder? **

**John Watson. **


	5. Chapter 5

Dear John.

Firstly I must apologize for the unfortunate connotations that go along with this salutation. I was discussing our correspondence with a friend and he informed me the negative associations that go along with receiving a "dear John" letter.

Secondly to address your initial thoughts expressed on the outline I gave you of the case. Might I say, while it is pleasant to read such lavish praises, please do not feel constrained upon to remark in this manner every time I speak of my deductive accomplishments. I am fully aware of the extent of my intellect and do not require constant nursing of the ego.

Thirdly, an answer to your concerns of danger and inquiries as to any romantic attachments I may have I must tell you that, while flattered by your interest, attachments of any kind are not my area and I consider myself married to my work so as such have no… opening for such an attachment. I hope that such a discovery will not mean we cannot correspond further.

Fourthly and finally, your question as to the fact that my reports and those of the recent newspaper do not add up. Because I have no interest in recognition, I mentioned earlier that I am fully aware of the extent of my intellect; I allow the police force to take the credit for my work. It also sets me in good stead for future endeavors with the police force and prevents undue attention to the fact that an "unqualified" person is working in the police force.

I hope this clears up any confusion

Sherlock Holmes.

**Dear Sherlock. **

**You seem to have got the wrong end of the stick regarding my innocent **_**platonic**_** inquiry as to your "attachments". Let me make this clear, I was not expressing an interest. I was not asking you out. I am entirely straight. I hope this clears up **_**your **_**confusion. **

**I did laugh however when you commented on the negative connotations of the "Dear John" opening. Frankly it's something I've never thought of before. But, please don't tell people you are sending me "Dear John" letters. They might get the wrong idea and start to talk… **

**Regarding your comment on my "lavish" praise, I assure you I don't do it to "nurse your ego". It's all genuine. **

**As for news at my end, it seems my unit will be mobilized soon. Finally, something to write home about. Not that I do. Write home that is. You are the only one I regularly correspond with. We'll be a security force employed in one of the local towns, to keep the peace, root out landmines, recruit camps and Taliban sympathizers, as well as offering protection to potential targets. I'll probably be spending my time at the local hospital, which is horrendously under staffed as you would expect. While I am looking forward to having something to do and finally being of some use, the thought of working in the hospital of an army zone does not enthuse me. One can only see so many shot children, mangled legs and starvation victims before they become numb. That is a thing I dread above all else Sherlock. Being feeling-less. **

**John Watson. **


	6. Chapter 6

Dear John

Several things both interested and confused me about your letter. Please rest assured that the earlier confusion about my "attachments" is cleared up. Two things about your letter confused me and confusion is not a feeling I am comfortable with and therefore not something I will tolerate. Firstly you wrote that I am the only one who you regularly correspond with. Where I there with you I would be able to deduce why but I am somewhat impeded by the distance between us. It is for this reason that I ask you, why I am the only one you correspond with? Have you no close friends or family back home to write to?

Secondly I am interested about your concluding statement, about the fear of being feeling-less. The feelings you referenced were negative feelings that cause suffering. Why are you so anxious to hang on to them? Surely you could work better if you were to put such things out of your head. This is the way I work as I have found it to be most effective. Sentiment is a weakness that slows the brain and impedes progress. At least I have always found it to be so. This belief has led some people to believe I am heartless or even sociopathic but that is simply the way I view life. I hope this does not mean we can not correspond further.

Sherlock Holmes.

"What you up to Watson?" One of John's comrades plunked down next to him, forking peaches out of the can. John looked up from the letter and smiled at her. He always thought she was kind of pretty, despite the buzz cut and inevitable dirty face.  
"Don't you have anything better to do Donovan than spy on me?" He asked, giving her a teasing nudge.  
"Like what? Clean out my foot locker again? Take a shower just to get dirty straight after, again? C'mon, tell me!" Donovan nudged him back.  
"I'm just replying to a letter."  
"Who's the letter from?"  
"A friend."  
"This friend have a name?"  
John rolled his eyes, a little annoyed with Donovan's prying now "Holmes"  
Donovan started and set the peaches down "Holmes? As in Sherlock Holmes?"  
John looked round at her in surprise. "Yeah! How'd you know?"  
Donovan pursed her lips, saying nothing. She seized the can and exited John's tent, ignoring his calls of protest at her exiting back. He furrowed his brow and set his pen down, unable for now to keep writing.


	7. Chapter 7

Dear John Watson.

You don't know me but I am Sally, the sister of your friend Christine Donovan. She has informed me that recently you have somehow got yourself involved with Sherlock Holmes. This is why I am writing to you. I am part of the police team that is forced to work with Sherlock and I believe you deserve to be warned of the truth. Being away from and conversing with him only in letters you won't realize the extent of the danger you have brought upon yourself. Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous, disturbed man. He solves crime, that you know, but what you don't know is why. He's not paid and he doesn't do it for fame. He _gets off on it_. The weirder it is the more off he gets. I am deadly serious Mr. Watson. Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath and one day, I seriously believe that solving crimes won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock will be the one who put it there. Just because he's bored. He's that kind of person. I'm warning you John, as a concerned party. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!

Sally Donovan

_Dear John Watson _

_Do you plan to consider this correspondence with Sherlock Holmes and if so, for how long? _

_Anon _

**Dear Anon. **

**I could be wrong (which I highly doubt) but I don't see how that's any of your business. **

**Yours sincerely, John Watson **

**Ps. Who the hell are you and why do you care? **


	8. Chapter 8

_Dear John Watson _

_I write to you to make a proposition. Do not concern yourself with my identity. I have recently become aware of your correspondence with a certain Sherlock Holmes. Do not concern yourself with how I came about this information. My proposition is this. You report to me any relevant information you receive about Sherlock and his doings via this correspondence. I am aware you will receive the information a while after the events have taken place. It is the views expressed regarding those events I wish to hear of, if he expresses anything personal or private to you, something you believe he has not expressed to anyone else, this is the information I require to be passed on. Naturally you would be… rewarded for such efforts. I sincerely hope I have made myself clear. Let me assure you I have no malicious intent. I worry for Sherlock. I am the closest thing to a friend Sherlock has, though he calls me his "arch enemy" _

_Anon. _


	9. Chapter 9

Dear John

I believe it is the socially accepted convention to offer my sympathies for the death of your parents, something I find completely ridiculous as I had no hand in it whatsoever and surely my words will not actually have much of a placating effect. Besides this, you do seem to have come to terms with the loss. As to the situation with your sister I confess I have no knowledge of alcoholism. My strongest vice is cigarettes, impossible though it is to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. I am happy that I have given you a reason to write home (odd though that is to me)

Your thoughts on feelings and the necessity of their existence intrigued me, part of the reason I am so interested in our correspondence and earnest that it continue. The sentiments you expressed are completely unique in all those I have ever heard. You seem to be saying that feelings make you more human and this benefits you because it allows you to empathize with the humans you treat. While I have no qualms with this statement I find myself in strong disagreement with the logic that followed when you applied the necessity of feelings to yourself personally. Why on earth would you want to be _more _human? Surely it is humanism that started the Afghan conflict, humanism that causes the mangled legs and starvation you dread so much? Surely it would be better to be above it all, unaffected by it? I do not to be callous or cold hearted in this reasoning, it is what I believe to be true.

Regarding the paltry occurrence of my "arch enemy" contacting you (do real people really not have them? How dull for them. What do they have instead?) DO not regard it of any importance. It is my brother, Mycroft who _is _the British government though he would insist he only inhabits a minor position. Take the money (you could probably do with it) and tell him anything you like. It is of no importance to me in the slightest.

As for the sister who contacted you, I can only assume it was Sally Donovan. She is indeed one of the blights I am forced to deal with whenever I work with Scotland Yard. I have, as you said "pissed her off" by offering my honest opinions on the minute intellects of both her and her lover, a Mr. Anderson. Please do not mention them in future, they irritate me exceedingly and, even worse, they are thoroughly boring.

Sherlock Holmes


	10. Chapter 10

**Dear Sherlock **

**You really are an interesting human being, Sherlock. You are making me consider angles that I never dreamed of before now. That being said I am afraid I must stand by my previous statements. I need feelings Sherlock for this simple reason. Humanity is a double edged sword. Wielded correctly it has amazing power. For some reason or other you seem to have a very negative opinion of humanity, believing it only to be a force for destruction or atrocious acts. While it must be admitted that it is so, it is not **_**only **_**so. The same humanity that plants bombs saves people from them. The same humanity that leads people to shoot each other in cold blood leads others to slave through the night in barely sanitary conditions to save them. I choose to be those others, Sherlock. If I placed myself above it all I would put myself in a position of nullified potential, of uselessness. I wouldn't be able to help, to change, to stop it all. And what is happening here needs to be stopped Sherlock. I'm not talking about the agenda the middle east is supposed to have or anything like that, but the senseless loss of life. That needs to stop. If by my humanity I can save just one life I consider it a privilege to experience all the crap this war throws my way. **

**Looking back on all this, and our previous conversations, it has just occurred to me how deeply personal and introspective these letters have become. I'm talking to you freely about things I wouldn't discuss with a close family member or even a therapist. This ought to be awkward but it isn't. I feel, without ever having met you, that I can trust you Sherlock. I know you despise sentiment but I must be honest with you Sherlock. Why does this not seem crazier? it seems like it really ought to, but I'm fine with it. is that strange? I don't know. This all being said I would very much like to receive a photo of you Sherlock. there are none in the papers I have received (camera shy?) and I would like to put a face to your words. Personify the enigma if you will. (I'm desperately hoping I don't sound like a lonely loser here. If I am let me down gently Sherlock) I would likewise send you a photo, if you'd like.**

**P.S. fine, if you insist, I'll take the money from your brother (why can't he just talk to you like a normal person?) but I refuse to tell him anything remotely near the truth. Does he read your mail or something? How does he even know about my letters? Also, yes no one in real life actually has an arch enemy. They usually have things like friends, acquaintances, people they vaguely despise but are too polite to say so, etc.**

Warm regards  
John Watson. 


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock couldn't take his eyes of the paper. He must have read the letter 5 times at least but he couldn't stop himself going over it yet again. It was staring him in the face but he didn't dare believe it. It wasn't just John's reasoning regarding feelings (which he did admit was admirable) but the undertone of the whole thing. These two pages of yellowed, wrinkled paper scrawled over in a near illegible doctor's hand had shaken the very bedrock of his identity to the core. He knew he was. The troubled genius. The sociopath. The freak. Above all he was alone. Friendless. Yet here was this letter. He could read the signs clear as day. The time taken over it. The frequent mentions of his name, written almost in fondness. The remark about trust he had so blithely made. The fact he felt confident enough to risk looking like "a lonely loser". The request for a photo. John Watson was addressing him as more than just a distraction, a relief from boredom. He was addressing him as a treasured acquaintance or even… (dare he say it?) … a friend.  
He knew the signs he just couldn't make sense of them in the context of interaction with himself. This was unprecedented. There was no guidance in his mind palace for this situation. He could name 42 different kinds of ash and 33 different types of perfume but couldn't recognize social signals directed at him. For the first time in his life this felt like a flaw.

What if John was joking? Using sarcasm? What if he was just a naturally overly friendly person? What if he thought this was just what Sherlock wanted to hear? What if he was just thinking of someone else? And then, an even scarier thought. What if he actually meant it that way? If only he was actually here! Sherlock could analyze body language, voice inflection and a myriad of other things to support or refute his hypothesis. Here, on the other side of the world he could only… ask. If he was wrong he'd look like an idiot. Maybe John would be so sick of his ineptness he'd stop writing! But, what if it was true and he didn't ask? He couldn't just not know! He cried in frustration and hurled his mug of tea at the wall, barely even registering the wet splashing smash.

He sat there for 3 hours more, agonizing over it until he could take it no longer. He had to get out; the walls were closing in on him here. He must get out. Where would he go? An idea popped into his head. There was always the matter of Mycroft's snooping that needed to be dealt with. Yes, he would pay his brother a visit. Insufferable as he was, Sherlock couldn't stay in the flat another minute. He hailed the first cab he could and instructed it in the direction of Mycroft's favorite dinner club.

Mycroft was mopping up the remnants of his gravy with a dinner roll when the doors burst open, eliciting a collective gasp from all the occupants. Mycroft sighed in annoyance. He had wondered when this was coming. Trust his younger to make a scene. When he caught sight of him he couldn't stifle a groan. He was not even decent, hair askew, clad only in a dressing gown (openly revealing his bare chest) and ratty pajama bottoms. In this hall of suits and silk he was painfully out of place. But, of course, he couldn't care less. The stares of all and sundry mattered not a jot to him. Well they mattered to Mycroft. He had a professional image to maintain and he would not allow it to be sullied by his idiot younger brother!  
"Sherlock, what is the meaning of this!" he took his arm, meaning to lead him into a more private room but Sherlock jerked it away.  
"Don't take that high and mighty tone! Now is not the time to care about your image! You've been reading my mail!"  
Mycroft grit his teeth. "Sherlock I will discuss this with you, gladly but not in public" Again he took his brother's arm and thankfully this time he allowed himself to be led away. The second they were out of sight he wrenched free.  
"Honestly brother dear, must you always make a scene? What would mother and father say?"  
Sherlock was not in the mood for Mycroft's condescension, nor the invoking of his parent's constant disapproval.  
"You do know mail tampering is illegal. I'm not a child anymore Mycroft, why can't you just let me be?" he slammed the table with perhaps a little more force than necessary, disturbing quite a few vital papers.  
Mycroft calmly rearranged them. "I never opened any of your letters. Any correspondence from those in positions of power to foreign countries must be monitored for security reasons"  
Relieved as he was that Mycroft hadn't been reading his letters (he could tell if he was lying) Sherlock still felt his privacy had been violated. Which was odd. He'd never resented any of his brother's other efforts to keep tabs on him, at least not like this. They'd been mild annoyances but Mycroft was overstepping a line when it came to encroaching on his relationship with John (did John and he even have a relationship?). His letters to John were no one's business but John's and his.  
"Why monitor the letters if you aren't going to read them? This is not about security and you know it. This is about your obsession with running my life."  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows in that infuriating way he always did when Sherlock slipped into any fragment of emotion. "Brother mine, national security is in my job description. I hold no interest in your little idiosyncratic life"  
The mention of his attempts at recruiting John as a spy was just on the tip of his tongue but Sherlock swallowed it. If Mycroft knew that Sherlock knew he wouldn't pay John. John deserved the money. So, hard as it was to back down from a fight with his brother, he did so.  
"Stay out of my life Mycroft" he said, with as much scorn as he could muster turning and leaving.


	12. Chapter 12

He was entirely unsatisfied with the outcome of that confrontation and so took it out on the flat. He hurled things at the wall, vaguely wishing he had a gun to shoot. John probably had a gun. John. His arm went limp to his side and he slid down onto his chair, head in his hands. Why was this so hard? Ordinary every day people could do it and they were morons! Even Anderson could have negotiated this situation with ease. Sherlock bristled at the thought, sticking out his tongue as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth. He wanted to be right so badly but was terrified of being wrong. Sherlock had never been terrified in his life. He decided, quite definitely that he did not like it.

3 weeks later

Sherlock had just tied off the tourniquet and was about to plunge the needle into his vein when he heard it. The click clack flap of the mail slot. That meant mail. Mail meant John. John! He ripped the dressing gown cord off his arm and threw the syringe aside, hurtling down the stairs to the front door. He met Mrs. Hudson on the way, who was full of ooey gooey cheerfulness (as she always was) but breezed right past her, seizing the envelopes at the door and racing back upstairs.  
"Sherlock some of those are mine!" she cried, but he had her on mute and didn't hear a word. She huffed in annoyance as the door slammed closed. It was no use trying for them now.

Sherlock tossed aside the one addressed to Mrs. Hudson, swearing in frustration until he got to that wonderful brown envelope with his name on it. It was only the thought of tearing the letter inside that made him reach for a letter opener and not just rip the bloody thing in half. With shaking hands, he broke the seal, pulled the paper free, unfolded it and began to read.

**Dear Sherlock **

**I haven't received anything from you. Usually your letters are like clockwork. Did it get lost in the mail or have you stopped writing. Please don't stop. I really enjoy your letters. Was it because I asked for a picture? If it is you don't have to send me one. It's really no problem. Did my comments about feelings offend you? I'm sorry I really didn't mean it. Maybe you've just been too busy and I'm making an arse of myself. I hope not, and yet at the same time, really hope so. Please write back Sherlock. Please. **

**John Watson **

He'd missed him. He wanted him to write back. Really, _really _wanted him to. He'd hurt John, made him worry. He had to fix this. _Suck it up Sherlock! Be brave! _He seized up a pen, threw himself onto his desk and began to write. Furiously.


	13. Chapter 13

Dear John

Many, many apologies for the lateness of this letter. It did not get lost in the mail. It wasn't because you asked for a picture or offended me in any way. The lateness of this letter is entirely my own fault. Bear with me now John because I am going into what is, for me, unchartered territory. I must confess, due to my disdain for sentiment I am quite inept when it comes to any kind of emotional interaction. It s for this reason I have been delaying. I received some signals from your last letter that I did not know how to interpret, I will not bore you with semantics. This is a question I have agonized over asking you for the whole length of my silence. Are you, attempting to… Was your letter written as… John Watson do you want to be my friend?


	14. Chapter 14

John smiled more and more as he read the letter. First with relief that Sherlock had finally sent something, then fondly as he told of his "disdain for sentiment", in confusion when he spoke of "signals he did not know how to interpret" and finally one of delight when he at last came out and asked "John Watson do you want to be my friend?"  
He hurriedly took out some paper and began to scribble out a reply

**Sherlock **

**You are without doubt the most intelligent man I have ever met. Wasn't it Socrates who said he who admits his ignorance is the wisest? It took guts to admit the fact that you struggle with feelings Sherlock and so I'm going to reward those guts with being blatantly obvious. You are my friend Sherlock. I am yours. I have never met you and I am closer to you than I ever was with any of my "mates" at school or even my fellow soldiers. Ours is an odd friendship but still as genuine and valid as any other. So your question should not have been "do you want to be my friend?" it should have been "shall we continue to be friends?" and the answer I give you is an unequivocal yes.  
John Watson **


	15. Chapter 15

In which John replies to Mycroft. Set before Sherlock receives his reply. 

**Dear Anon **

**Since you are so eager to keep tabs on Sherlock I will indulge you. However I still have misgivings about the ethics of all of this so we will do this my way. Every time I update you, I will give you one truth and 2 lies. It is up to you to pick the truth. You will decide which one you think is true and write back to me, taking whatever action you see fit regarding Sherlock. If you do pick the truth from the lies you do not have to pay me for that update. If you get it wrong I pocket the fee. **

**Here's your first one. Judging from Sherlock's recent correspondence with me it is evident that he has **

**A. taken up adult ballet **

**B. taken a great leap forward emotionally **

**C. taken up the practice of experimenting with the effects of alkaloids on hamsters. **

**Your move mystery man  
John Watson **

Sherlock's phone beeped. He took it from his pocket, thinking it to be Lestrade with a case. Instead, his brother's name glowed out at him. He furrowed his brow in confusion and annoyance. What did his overbearing sibling want now?

_Please stop poisoning small mammals Sherlock. The RSPCA do tend to frown upon that sort of thing - MH_

What the hell? What that supposed to mean? Was he high? Was it code? He didn't have time to ponder on it however. The mail had arrived.


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: The picture is a manip and not mine. All credit goes to the creator. **

It started with a compliment. That was good, right? It continued on in the complimentary vein and became increasingly heartfelt, causing strange panging like sensations in his chest. When he actually read the words "You are my friend Sherlock" he literally laughed out loud with joy. Had he been a lesser restrained man he would have hugged the letter to his chest. Fortunately he wasn't a lesser restrained man and resisted that urge. He'd felt thrills before. As a child at Christmas (before he'd learned to deduce the gift) and as an adult from solving cases and surviving high risk situations. But the thrill he felt now was completely new. The thrill of connection, of knowing someone out there was waiting to hear from him, someone who cared about him and what he had to say. Now he had to take some time out, a moment on the violin or some nicotine patches so the letter he wrote in reply was not emotionally compromising.

Dear John

You cannot know just how honored I am to receive this news that a friendship exists between us. I confess I am both flattered and daunted to be put in this position. I was even very close to being moved by it. I will endeavor to do my very best in fulfilling my role as friend and pen-pal (that term is so juvenile but I could think of no other) but I am afraid this is all quite new to me so you will have to bear with me on a few points.

Things have going very slowly regarding case work at the moment. The crimes coming in have been so banal that even Anderson has had no trouble in bringing the mindless culprits to justice so it goes without saying that I am very, _very_ bored as of late. Boredom is not just something I experience. It is a black cloud of ennui that I feel deep in my bone marrow, the thick tar of inactivity that threatens to swallow me whole. Your letters have been the one chink of light to pierce the gloom and this is another reason I am immensely thankful to you. You give me something to do, your friendship and trust motivates me in a way I have never experienced with anyone else.

It is because of this motivation that there is a package accompanying this letter. Part of being in correspondence with army personnel overseas is to send them "care packages" and as I stated earlier, I want to fulfill my role in this "odd but genuine" friendship. I have also enclosed a photo of myself so you will know what I look like (I have been informed by Lestrade, one of my more tolerable collegues that it is called a "selfie" but obviously he's just being ridiculous.) I hope you derive satisfaction and enjoyment from both the letter and the package.

Your friend, Sherlock Holmes.


	17. Chapter 17

"Mail call! Mail's here!"  
John hurriedly put his gun and cleaning rag away and hurried to join the crowd amassing around the mail clerk.  
"Anything for me Danny?" John asked when it came to be his turn.  
Danny grinned "Oh yeah! Got two thing for you!"  
"Two letters?"  
"No, a letter and a package!" Danny gushed, hefting a brown paper wrapped box out from his bag. John accepted it bemusedly, aware of the looks from the others. No one got packages anymore, except from the red-cross. This was a personalized package. John turned it over, looking for the return address. And there it was on an adhesive label "221b Baker Street". Sherlock. John hurried his package away to his quarters so he could go through it without nosy eyes watching.

Of course he read the letter first. It made him smile and chuckle a little to himself. The letter was so quintessentially Sherlock. A stunning mix of enigmatic insight, depth of character self awareness and endearing naivety. He put it aside in the box he kept all of Sherlock's letters in and tore the wrapping from the box. The first thing he pulled out was hard, flat, and plastic. He brought it into the light, revealing it to be a sealed petri dish of mold culture. He furrowed his brow. The note taped to it read "something to study should you get any free time" He shook his head.  
"Thanks Sherlock. Just what I always wanted."  
The rest of the package was equally perplexing. Vivid crime scene photos of people with their heads bashed in and the like. Case files with the challenge to figure out who did it as well as well as some completed ones. A tape of his violin playing (John did enjoy that). Taped daytime television with a note that read "I have recently developed an unhealthy addiction to these programmes and remembering an earlier allusion to daytime TV in one of your previous letters, thought you may enjoy this" (a whole 2 days worth of Doctor Phil, Ellen and at home shopping. Whoo-hoo). Old newspapers and cigarettes. All packaged up with evident thought and care. Sherlock had packed all the things that he would like to receive. John smiled fondly and resignedly at these items which were really of no use to him whatsoever. He did appreciate Sherlock's trying.  
"Hey Johnny boy!" John tensed at the moniker he hated so and poked his head out to see who it was. It was Danny holding another package.  
"Found this at the bottom of my bag. It's addressed to you too."  
"What? Another one?" John took the passage and looked at the returning address. It read 221a Baker street" Sherlock's neighbor? Why was Sherlock's neighbor sending him a package? He broke the seal of the envelope taped to the top and read the letter.

Dear Soldier.

I am Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's neighbor and landlady. He gave this to me to post (after which I wrangled the story out of him about what it was all about) and I confess I had a peek. Sherlock means well but the things he sent are well… odd, as I'm sure you'll agree. He would have been devastated if all his hard work had gone to waste so I sent it anyway. But I thought you could do with some things you actually use. But just this once dear, I'm not his housekeeper.

Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh Mrs. Hudson, you're a saint!" John grinned and eagerly opened her package. Razors. Tinned food. A first aid kit. Reading material. Toilet paper. Pen and writing stationary. Biscuits. Deodorant. Comb. Toothbrush and tooth paste. Tea and coffee sachets. Deck of playing cards. Fantastic. The siren was going for drill practice just now but when he had some free time he knew what he was going to do with it. He had two letters to write.


	18. Chapter 18

AN: again the photo is not mine. If it is yours and you object to the use of it PM me and I will take it down

Sherlock was not in such a hurry this time so he took the time to actually check the addresses on the envelopes when the mail came. He assured himself it was for practicality's sake, not having to weed through irrelevant letters but it could be said that there was a modicum of truth to the idea that he did not want to put up with another of Mrs. Hudson's lectures about common courtesy and neighborly behaviour. It was because of this modicum he took the time to knock on her door and hand her the letters rather than just ditching them on her doorstep. She accepted them gratefully and tried to tempt him in with a cup of tea but he declined. It was as she was turning away that he caught sight of that familiar brown envelope with its military postmark in her hand. Had he mistakenly given her John's letter? No, he'd thoroughly checked them and John's letter to him was here in his own hand. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson was also corresponding with a soldier? Yes that must be it. Her soldier almost certainly wasn't half as interesting as John. He smiled smugly to himself, ascending the stairs to read his letter.

Mrs. Hudson closed the door and began to sift through her mail, pleasantly surprised at Sherlock's uncharacteristic consideration. The pleasant surprises only continued when, among the bills and bank statements, she found a personal letter from that soldier fried of Sherlock's addressed to her. She poured herself a cuppa and sat down to read it.

**Dear Mrs. Hudson **

**Your considerate and compassionate nature is a credit to you. If only there were more such people in the world. You do not know me and you have no connection to Sherlock (as far as I know) other than being his ****housekeeper****, er sorry landlady. Our inconvenience would not put you out in the slightest and still you trouble over us both. Please know that I am very, **_**very**_** grateful for your parcel and the practicality of the items it contains. You have done the heart of an old soldier (not to mention his hygiene habits) a world of good. I will keep your package to me a secret, for Sherlock's sake, and ask that you do the same with this reply. Just be our little secret eh? **

**Many thanks  
John Watson **

Mrs. Hudson laughed. What a sweet talker! "Our little secret" indeed. The thrill it gave her was foolish for a woman her age. This "old soldier" was probably only in his thirties and here was she, an old lady, blushing like a school girl over his letter! But she indulged it anyway. After all, who would know? It was John and her "little secret".

Upstairs, Sherlock was reading his own letter.

**Dear Sherlock**

**Thank you greatly for the package, I can tell you put a lot of thought into it. As far as I'm concerned you are doing a fantastic job in "fulfilling your role in this odd but genuine friendship". A particular favorite from the things you sent was the tape of your violin playing. If the bottom ever falls out of the consulting detective business you can become a concert violinist. Did you compose the piece yourself? I've never heard it before (than again I'm hardly an aficionado of violin music. It may be a really popular piece and I'm coming of as a complete philistine not recognizing it. Ah well, that's the risk you take when you're friends with a genius eh?) **

**I wish I could send you a package in reply but I don't think you'd have any use for old hole-y socks and shell casings. (Pity, I have those aplenty). I can however send you a picture. A bunk mate of mine got one of those instant cameras from home a while back and just recently rustled up enough money to buy a roll of film. The sneaky bastard snapped one of me when I wasn't looking (I usually hate being in photos). So I sneaked it out of his footlocker when **_**he**_** wasn't looking. One sneak deserves another and after all it is a photo **_**of me**_** so the way I see it, it belongs **_**to me**_**. I have enclosed it along with this letter. Hope you're not too put off by my ugly mug to keep writing.**

**John Watson.**


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock pulled out the photo and studied it with hungry eyes, cataloging every detail and its corresponding deduction. So this was what his first friend looked like. Sherlock felt oddly validated now that he had tangible proof that John was a real person and that he trusted him as a friend. He would not have sent him the photo otherwise. He said himself he hates being in photos. Sherlock couldn't think why. There was no obvious disfigurement that would give him cause for shame. He appeared normal and perfectly formed, if a little weathered. Probably just a little insecurity that comes with being the older child in an unstable family, or part of the humility and quiet, almost shyness that made up such a large part of his personality. The other parts Sherlock had observed were steadfast loyalty, courage and old fashioned work ethic. Sherlock wondered if John would be considered attractive to someone who actually cared about those things. Maybe he'd ask Lestrade. He put that temporarily out of mind, set John's photo aside with a mental note to get it framed and set to writing a reply.

Dear John

You are confusing me again. I wish you wouldn't do that. Why do you term such a photograph as the one you sent me as portraying an "ugly mug?" I see nothing wrong with your "mug" and I am the most thorough observer you could ever hope to meet. In this photograph I see an Englishman who has the rare fortune among the Anglo race of being comfortable abroad as he is at home. I see a hard working soldier who has been outside often and cares not for his cap (you are not a man who would highlight his hair artificially, nor do you have access to the necessary chemicals so it obvious that the highlighting in your hair is a result of sun bleaching, mean you are often outside without a cap). I see a doctor who works long into the night, who forgets that he is frowning because he is so lost in his work. (I read this in the lines on your forehead and the circles under your eyes. You wrinkle these aspects of your face for long sustained periods before you allow them to slacken, not a normal behaviour) I see an eldest child who was more instrumental in raising his sibling than his parents will ever know, even though she poked you in the face with a pencil. (I confess this deduction is mostly from earlier information though the pit in your cheek tells me of the pencil. These pits sometimes occur naturally but the rest of your face is not likewise pitted so it stands to reason the cause was localized blunt force trauma. The circumference and depth says pencil point) I see a deep thinker, a humble man, a man sometimes turned so much on himself he forgets where he is, to shower, to eat, to do his laundry. (The creases on your shirt and sheen of sweat on your face. By now you must be used to the climate so the sheen of sweat suggests prolonged physical activity that has not been washed away. If you forget to shower it is logical to infer from this and the fact that you put your work first that eating is not a high priority) I do not see ugliness. I would wager some people would find your face an attractive one, even to the point of piquing romantic interest (not me, don't let's start on all that nonsense again). Modesty, while an admirable quality is dull. Don't be dull John.

Speaking, or rather writing, of what I see in photos you never told me your appraisal of the photograph I sent you. Go on, deduce what you may from it and I'll tell you if you're correct. (I know already that I am correct, do not feel the need to point this out) I look forward to seeing how an "amateur" approaches the art and science that is deductive observation.

P.S. I received a rather odd text from my brother some time ago and it has just occurred to me it could because of something you told him. Can you explain to me why my brother is advising me to stop "poisoning small mammals"?

Sherlock Holmes.


	20. Chapter 20

After he got over the initial wonder and awe at the depth and breadth (and accuracy) of Sherlock's deductions, John realized he'd never actually looked at photograph Sherlock sent him, in all the kerfuffle and excitement of receiving two packages. Come to think of it, he could actually remember where it was. Damn, he hadn't lost it had he? He opened his foot locker and began to rummage through it. Just as he was starting to get well and truly frustrated (how much crap was he keeping in here?) his bunkmate Mike entered.  
"Hey! What are you trashing the place for? I know we don't get inspected that regularly anymore but that's no reason to turn the tent upside down"  
"I'm looking for a photo." John said curtly, pulling the covers of his cot back.  
"Ah. What of? A special someone? Pining after our sweetheart are we?"  
John didn't reply, instead dropping to his knees and poking his head under the cot itself. There, face up on the floor, masquerading as a dust bunny, was the picture. He pulled it out, exclaiming in triumph. The triumph was short lived as Mike swooped down and plucked it from his hand.  
"Let's cop a look at her then"  
"Mike! Give that back!" John didn't like how juvenile he was sounding but Mike tended to have that effect on people. It was as if he had split personality disorder. Serious and morose in the operating theatre, a class clown with a flea in his shorts the rest of the time. Right now the class clown had a smile worthy of the Joker painted across his face.  
"You're sweetheart's a bloke John! Why didn't you tell me?"  
"Shut up Stamford. He's just a friend" John growled, seizing the photo back and inspecting it for stain or wrinkle.  
"Whatever mate. As long as you're happy eh?" Mike flopped down on his own cot.  
John shook his head and turned his attention back to the photograph. Did Sherlock really expect him to be able to deduce anything from this photograph? Well, he could at least try.

**Dear Sherlock **

**You're taking my breath away again Sherlock. From a glance over one photograph you seem to know more of me than people who live with me. And the funny thing is, I don't mind it. If someone else were to judge my life like this I would feel violated, angry even. But with you it's as if you have a right to know this stuff. As for modesty being dull, don't rail on it too much. Modesty in others is one of those things that make this world just that little bit more bearable. **

**Now the bit I've been putting off. My deductions. This is probably going to be rubbish but you asked so here goes. **

**My deductions from you're photograph **

**You are young. Definitely not over 40 but not younger than 25. You have that fresh face look but no adolescent awkwardness or acne. **

**This is your first time taking a "selfie" (yes people really do call them that). You hold the phone awkwardly in front of your face, taking a photo of your mirror reflection rather than your actual face and you do not pose ( I can't tell if you're smiling) **

**(I feel really stupid doing this y'know) **

**Uhhh… you like to dress well. You have a decent income coming in from somewhere. Does someone support you or are you paid by Scotland Yard for your detective work? Is asking questions cheating? Ah I don't know. I give up.**

**It's so unfair that you know so much about me just by looking and I've got to struggle like a mere mortal just to catch up. I don't begrudge you your gift Sherlock just a bit jealous. **

**Anyway, pitiful deductions aside, Sherlock I do believe I can shed some light on your brother's odd text message. I fed him a lie about you (that you are testing the effects of alkaloids on hamsters) and he took the bait. He owes me money. Do write to me if he sends you anymore odd texts or makes further suspiciously smug statements. **

**Enough of your brother eh? Let's change the subject. Things this end have been going well considering. We had a man with injuries from a road accident come in and I reset the break in his leg. I was afraid infection would set in but thank good ness it hasn't. I know that doesn't sound particularly riveting but here infection in a wound can be fatal or at least have cost him the leg to gangrene or such like which is just as bad because he wouldn't have been able to work and feed his family. I saved a family yesterday Sherlock, just by re-setting a bone properly. Yes I do feel quite proud of myself at this particular moment. How about you? Had any triumphs or small victories lately? **

**John Watson. **

**Dear Anon**

**Ha-ha, WRONG! Sorry to be blunt but you know how we spies are. You owe me. Please do me the favor of converting it into Afghanis or at least military script if you can. US dollars are accepted here but pounds, not so much. **

**Here's your next one.  
Recently Sherlock has learnt  
A. what a "selfie" is  
B. the history of the Afghanistan conflict  
C. the exact formula for gelignite **

**Go on. Give it another try. **


End file.
